Monthly Archives: dezembro 2004

De repente Lóri não suportou mais e telefonou para Ulisses:

— Que é que eu faço, é de noite e eu estou viva. Estar viva está me matando aos poucos, e eu estou toda alerta no escuro.

Houve uma pausa, ela chegou a pensar que Ulisses não ouvira. Então ele disse com voz calma e apaziguante:

— Agüente.

Quando desligou o telefone, a noite estava úmida e a escuridão suave, e viver era ter um véu cobrindo os cabelos. Então com ternura aceitou estar no mistério de ser viva.

Clarice Lispector in Uma aprendizagem ou O livro dos prazeres, 19a. ed., Rio de Janeiro: Francisco Alves, 1993. pp. 133-134.

O NASCIMENTO DO PRAZER (trecho)

O prazer nascendo dói tanto no peito que se prefere sentir a habituada dor ao insólito prazer. A alegria verdadeira não tem explicação possível, não tem a possibilidade de ser compreendida – e se parece com o início de uma perdição irrecuperável. Esse fundir-se total é insuportavelmente bom – como se a morte fosse o nosso bem maior e final, só que não é a morte, é a vida incomensurável que chega a se parecer com a grandeza da morte. Deve-se deixar inundar pela alegria aos poucos – pois é a vida nascendo. E quem não tiver força, que antes cubra cada nervo com uma película protetora, com uma película de morte para poder tolerar a vida. Essa película pode consistir em qualquer ato formal protetor, em qualquer silêncio ou em várias palavras sem sentido. Pois o prazer não é de se brincar com ele. Ele é nós.

Clarice Lispector

PS: Pode ser que esse texto não seja dela. Alguém sabe?

‘I wish _I_ could manage to be glad!’ the Queen said. ‘Only I

never can remember the rule. You must be very happy, living in

this wood, and being glad whenever you like!’

‘Only it is so VERY lonely here!’ Alice said in a melancholy

voice; and at the thought of her loneliness two large tears came

rolling down her cheeks.

‘Oh, don’t go on like that!’ cried the poor Queen, wringing her

hands in despair. ‘Consider what a great girl you are. Consider

what a long way you’ve come to-day. Consider what o’clock it is.

Consider anything, only don’t cry!’

Alice could not help laughing at this, even in the midst of her tears.

‘Can YOU keep from crying by considering things?’ she asked.

‘That’s the way it’s done,’ the Queen said with great decision:

‘nobody can do two things at once, you know. Let’s consider your age

to begin with–how old are you?’

‘I’m seven and a half exactly.’

‘You needn’t say “exactually,”‘ the Queen remarked: ‘I can

believe it without that. Now I’ll give YOU something to believe.

I’m just one hundred and one, five months and a day.’

‘I can’t believe THAT!’ said Alice.

‘Can’t you?’ the Queen said in a pitying tone. ‘Try again:

draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.’

Alice laughed. ‘There’s no use trying,’ she said: ‘one CAN’T

believe impossible things.’

‘I daresay you haven’t had much practice,’ said the Queen.

‘When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day.

Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things

before breakfast.

“A cat is there when you call her – if she doesn’t have anything better to do.” – Bill Adler

“No one can own a cat, but they will bless you with their company, if they choose.” – Frank Engram ..1952



“The difference between cats and dogs is that dogs come when called and cats take a message and get back to you.” – anonymous

“Women and cats will do as they please and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.” – Robert A. Heinlein

Disseram para eu escrever um diário.

É o que estou fazendo. Críptico? É. Mas reflete.

Quem sabe agora um secreto, com detalhes? Com sentimento, mesmo, com confissões, com lágrimas para eu ler depois e me achar ridícula, muito ridícula. Quem sabe um com recibos colados, com fotos e flores, um com letra feia de quem está presa à cama de tanto desgosto. Com desenhos, com carinhas sorridentes, com figuras de palitos.

Vou escrever um diário. Quem sabe resolve.

(Chapter 7 – Julio Cortazar)

I touch your mouth, I touch the edge of your mouth with my finger, I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes to erase it and start all over again, every time I can make the mouth I want appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on your face, and which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on you.

You look at me, from close up you look at me, closer and closer and then we play cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, they merge into one and the two cyclopses look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with a heavy perfume and a silence. Then my hands go to sink into your hair, to cherish slowly the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish, with lively movement and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.